The Windows to the Soul
by BlackBandit111
Summary: Spoilers for 3x3. 'She pulls the trigger and watches the emotions flash in his diamond shaped eyes- the most prominent is not pain, like she expects. It is hurt.' Sherlock being shot from Mary's POV. No slash, two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! So, pretty much I was thinking about what might've gone on while Sherlock was in his mind palace for those three seconds, and afterwards, when he was trying not to go into shock and all those things. :) I hope you enjoy!**

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She hears the door creak but doesn't move, the gun positioned, immobile, directly at Charles Magnussen's forehead. She's a good shot. She can kill this man now and be done with it. She can leave and go home to John and laugh about how Sherlock did something ridiculous that day that John always wants to tell her about. She knows who's at the door.

She doesn't want to turn around.

Magnussen babbles something at her, something she doesn't care about. She knows who's behind her. She knows. "...he would want?" Magnussen finishes. Mary scowls at him.

She wants to tell him to shut up and be quiet, but he's already done so, snivelling a little now and bowing his head slightly. Something inside her burns through her veins and races through her blood, making it boil. It's hot and uncomfortable but strangely exhilarating, and it fuels her actions. She doesn't want it to stop.

The deep baritone voice that echoes directly through her and lodges itself in her soul makes her breath hitch a little, and her gun lowers fractionally to the left as she prepares to turn. She knows she has to. "...Additionally, if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume…" She raises her gun again, fingers burning underneath her glove. "Lady Smallwood."

She almost breathes a sigh of relief because for all his intelligence, Sherlock could not have deduced it is her yet. It almost makes her chest ache when it should make her brighten, but all she feels at the moment is hollow. All she can really concentrate on is the suddenly very heavy gun in her possession and her erratic breathing. She forces herself to calm down and take slower breaths. She can't afford to panic.

She knows she can easily solve this issue- kill them both and be done with it. She's a good shot. She could do it. Headshot. No pain. She doesn't want Sherlock to be in pain. She could be done with it altogether and just live with John and their child and everything would be alright. John…

She can't. Sherlock has lodged himself somewhere deep in her heart, just like John has, and she can't hurt them both anymore than she has to.

Magnussen straightens jerkily, breathing labored. He exhales a long, shaky breath. "Sorry...who?" Mary doesn't move, only clutches the gun tighter in her hand. She has it if she needs to use it. Another beat goes by, then another. "That's...not...Lady Smallwood, Mister Holmes."

It's time.

She pivots before she can think not to, coming face to face with the one and only Sherlock Holmes. His lips part, his eyes unfocused. They still look at her, but it's almost like he's looking through her- seeing past deductions and opinions flashing around her. His eyes dart to her sides, over her shoulders. He swallows unconsciously; leans back slightly. His eyes are blown wide. They look more green than blue at the moment.

She can't stand the silence. "Is John with you?" She asks, her heart thudding painfully in her chest at the thought. John is always with Sherlock, why wouldn't he be on this particular case? She doesn't even know how they got in here. She only knows she wishes that they weren't so damn good at what they do.

Sherlock blinks. "He's-um…" His voice trembles barely, so slightly that Mary thinks for a moment she might have imagined it.

She realizes that he's too shocked to think at the moment. She takes the reins of the conversation, steering it in the right direction. Away from reasons and deductions and thought. "Is John _here?"_

At her firm tone Sherlock seems to recover himself a little, eyes turning bluer suddenly as he shifts a little where he stands- barely. Mary notices every move like it's in slow motion and zoomed in as far as it can be. "He's-he's downstairs."

Downstairs. Here. Downstairs. Thank God her gun doesn't make any noise when it shoots. Instead of voicing these things, she nods. Magnussen's voice rings out shakily but nonetheless curiously. "So what do you do now? Kill us both?"

She gives Magnussen a humourless smile over her shoulder and his face immediately loses some color. Her pistol is still aimed at Sherlock, she notes. When did she do that? Aim it at him like that?

"Mary," Sherlock says, his voice even and steady now, "whatever he's got on you, let me help." She sees his weight shift to one foot, the other minisculely lifting off the ground to take a step towards her. She's seen his speed and agility and, despite him being her friend and trying to help, she doesn't want him near her at the moment. At all.

She lifts her gun slightly, her finger twitching over the trigger. She takes a deep breath, forcing her voice to be steady and level. The fire inside her cools a little so she can feel the sharp stab in her chest. She ignores it. "Sherlock," she says, and if there are tears clouding her vision a little she doesn't acknowledge them, instead making her voice edged, hard, and deadly serious. "If you take one more step I swear I will kill you."

Sherlock shakes his head, a small smile sitting plainly on his lips. It's the smile he reserves for her and John alone, perhaps Mrs. Hudson sometimes. It's a smile that says, _I'm your friend. I want to help you. I understand. _Trust me. _I can help you. _ "No, Mrs. Watson," he says slowly, voice a little quiet but still strong. Confident. Unwavering. His faith in her is dizzying and steals the breath out of her lungs.

_Please don't make me do this._

"You won't."

She doesn't remember seeing him move, only that she automatically squeezed the trigger. The bullet only makes a little clicking noise as it leaves the barrel and there's barely a _whoosh _of air as it spirals towards him. She can hear when it pierces his skin and lodges itself in his chest.

Sherlock exhales slightly, face completely open for her to see. There's no defense mechanism up this time, no walls or masks to hide the emotions he doesn't want other to see. His face has drained of it's little color, the usually fair skin now completely alabaster. The delicate cheekbones have lost their rosy tint and are now gray. His brows are lifted slightly, his lips parted. His eyes are wide. He is surprised.

He is shocked.

She can't help the little burst of air as it bubbles from her mouth. She feels cold, like someone has poured icy water over her head and drowned her in it. His surprise dulls the fire in her veins to something manageable. It doesn't go away, but the full force of what she's done hits her like a ton of bricks.

There's a little blot of crimson on his crisp white button up, exposed to the air. It grows. Her breath hitches.

"I'm sorry Sherlock," she says, tears blurring her vision. Why did he make her do this? She didn't want this to happen. He can't see her tears. He'll panic. She doesn't need him panicking. She knows exactly where she hit him and what she hit. There's massive internal bleeding- enough to take him down, but not enough to kill him if he can figure out how to survive. If she cries now he'll think he's done for. At least he might believe he has a chance to survive like this- which he does.

Mary doesn't doubt him. Sherlock didn't doubt her.

Sherlock's head has dipped somewhat during the time that she's been internally struggling and now he picks it up, staring at her. His face is so pale, too pale. He looks like he's been stricken; wide eyes and parted lips, which are white. He has pinkish rings under his eyes and in the light it looks like he needs sleep. His eyes are too bright. He's not glaring, not crying. Just staring. Startled. Shocked. Unbelieving.

"Mary?" He asks, brows furrowing slightly. Something plucks at her heartstrings at the look on his face- for a moment he looks like a lost child. She expects to see pain in those turquoise irises, fear even, but she doesn't. Instead, she sees a different kind of pain- a deep set stab that comes straight from his heart to reflect in his diamond shaped eyes. Hurt. He is hurt by what she has done. He doesn't care that she shot him and he's physically in pain. He cares because something deep inside him has been ripped open.

By her.

His frame sways gently, like it's trying desperately to support the rest of Sherlock's tall form. His legs quiver at his knees. His arms dangle limply at his sides, unanimated, unmoving. He probably isn't aware that he's on the verge of toppling over. He blinks at her, his eyes unseeing and slightly teary if she looks harder. Something squeezes painfully at her chest and claws its way up Mary's throat.

She can't look at him anymore. She blinks and turns her pistol to Magnussen, flinching when she hears his lean frame slam against the floor. He gasps and gives a little grunt when he hits the ground. It sounds airy and pain filled and consumes the room for a moment. His panting echoes around the room, but it is otherwise silent. Mary isn't sure if this is a good thing.

She can't find it in herself to shoot Magnussen now. Not after what this gun did to Sherlock. His eyes and his emotions have taken all of the fire out of her body, leaving her with just icy realization at what she's done. She smacks the gun to the side of Magnussen's face and he crumples into an unmoving heap. Then she's a flurry of activity, tucking her gun away and pulling out her phone and skirting her fingers along the numbers.

"What service do you require?" Someone on the other end of the line asks.

"Ambulance," Mary supplies quickly and gives the address, quietly padding over to Sherlocks' prone form. His eyes are glassy and stare up at nothing, and there is a name at his lips. She knows she has to get out of here if she ever wants to be free, but she can't help herself. She leans forward so his lips brush her ear slightly, a gust of air blowing. His breath smells like peppermint as he breathes, "...Redbeard…"

She wonders idly what he's thinking about or seeing, then realizes that she'll have to ponder it later. She goes to leave, about to stand from her crouching position, but she can't just leave him like this. Gently taking two fingers, she places them against his eyelids and shuts them softly. Now it looks like he's sleeping. She presses her lips lightly to his forehead-not enough to leave a mark, but enough to be felt.

Mary grabs her bag and makes a mad dash for the exit, silent sirens echoing in her ears.

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**And my very first Sherlock fanfiction. How'd I do? Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it! Please, leave me a comment on your opinion- good, bad? Okay? :) Constructive criticism is also appreciated! **

**So a couple of my friends have asked me to do a Sherlock de-aged story. I don't know. What do you guys think? Yes or no? PM me with your opinions and if you don't have an account and want to vote, comment on one of my stories. I'll list the name under people who vote.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I did NOT think that this was going to end up as a two-shot, but here we go. Thank you to:**

**Nighthegale: Thank you for your kind review- and for being my first! I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**ballykissedangel: Thank you! I tried my hardest.**

**Wynnleaf: Thanks! I appreciate it!**

**Kuronoko Tsubame: Thank you so much. (PS. If you go back to the first chapter, I think you'll find a couple changes.) ;)**

**briongloid fiodoir: Thank you! I didn't think there would be another chapter, but, well. Here it is. So I hope you enjoy!**

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Sixteen steps. Fifteen. Fourteen to the top. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight, seven, and six pass as she jumps three of them. Five. Four, three, two.

One.

Then John's rushing up to her, smiling his broad, relieved smile. She breathes a little, but there's still a shortness-an edge- that prevents her from truly relaxing. "Mary," John breathes, eyes alight like she hasn't seen since their wedding day. "He's only bloody woken up! He's pulled through."

Her heart stops.

He's made it. He's made it. Sherlock made it.

Thank God.

She's never been terribly religious, but now she sends up a silent prayer to whoever is listening. _Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. _She doesn't believe it. "Really?" She asks urgently, gripping John's shoulders. "Seriously?" She isn't sure if she wants to laugh or cry at the moment, and settles for just grinning broadly, ignoring the watering of her eyes. He's made it.

She knew he could.

"Oh, _you_, Mrs. Watson," he says, pulling away from her and brows furrowing a little bit. Mary tries to disregard the pounding of her heart in her ears as he gives her a stern look. "You're in big trouble."

She tries to look confused, even though it feels like something in her chest has withered up and swallowed itself. She frowns at him, feels the downward curve of her lips. Around her, the world is silent and dead. "Really? Why?"

John's expression deepens. "His first word when he woke up?" He says, and Mary shakes her head. Gunman? Shot? Fraud? Liar? "Mary!"

She lets out a stressed, breathy giggle. There's nothing actually funny about it, but it has been a long few hours while Sherlock was in surgery for John and Mary, and so they both laugh quietly. It's strained, a little tear filled, and more laughable than the actual joke, but they giggle anyway. She steps forward and hugs him tightly, pressing her nose into his neck. He smells like he always does- laundry detergent, his cologne, and the scent she can never put her finger on but is distinctly _John. _If she concentrates enough, he smells a little like Sherlock, too- peppermint, fresh London air, and pine. She's only hugged Sherlock once but it's been ingrained into her memory.

She pulls back, afraid she'll lose her composure. John looks exhausted, rims under his eyes and a pale complexion, but he's smiling, albeit a little wearily. "Mary, can you sit with him? Now that he's out of the woods, I'd like to get myself a cuppa or something. My nerves…" He trails off, bites his lip. His eyes flicker to his shoes.

Something tugs on her heartstrings for the second time in twenty four hours, and she finds herself nodding. "Of course, love. Go on. I'll watch over him."

John clears his throat, shuffling. He seems more collected. "Do you want one?"

Mary feels a bubble of hysterical laughter almost burst from her lips, but fights it down. She shoots one of her best friends and now John's asking if she needs a cuppa. "No. Thanks."

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. He's stiff from sitting in the medical chairs, Mary deduces. "Alright. I'll be back." He kisses her fleetingly on the cheek and she closes her eyes a moment, trying to memorize the feeling of his lips. Then he's gone.

She strides forward, steps even and confident. She tries not look like she wants to break down because of the feeling that's pressing on her shoulders, trying to sink her. She walks to his room number- 207, ironically- and gently turns the knob, opening the door.

The room is dim, but not completely dark. Light filters in softly through the window, casting its shadows over the figure on the bed. Sherlock's face is completely white, almost whiter than the sheet he lays under. His eyes are closed, long lashes sitting innocently on high cheekbones. His mouth is slightly parted in his sleep, like it always is when he's dreaming, and he looks very small in the hospital bed, which is long enough to hold his six foot frame. He's completely vulnerable in this state, his shields completely absent. He looks peaceful despite the small crease between his eyes.

She sits herself in the chair next to his bed that John must've vacated, leaning towards him slightly. She gently takes his limp hand in her own. It's cold. Softly, she begins to rub some life back into the frozen fingers, which barely twitch. "Oh, Sherlock," she murmurs. Why did he make her do this?

He mutters something, his fingers twitching again. "...Jn…" She freezes. Is he waking up? He can't see her like this- being soft. She has to end what she started with Magnussen. She can't afford to let Sherlock find out now. "...Mry…"

She stands, throwing up her facade. In a moment her face must be cool and measured. His eyelashes flutter. "You don't tell him," she says quietly. Sherlock's eyelashes flutter for another moment before bright gray eyes were open, blearily searching the room. His eyelashes begin to close again slowly as he blinks automatically, his eyelids growing heavy. "Sherlock," she calls, and his gaze is more alert as he turns slightly to regard her. His gray eyes focus on her a moment, then are looking through her the next. She figures he can hear her, anyway.

He grunts softly, as if to let her know he's listening. Something twists her heart but she steadies herself. "You don't tell John," she says sternly.

His gaze wanders slightly to the right towards the ceiling, his eyes unfocused again. She sighs and turns down his morphine amount slightly. She waits a couple minutes in silence, observing his reaction to her cruel action.

He groans, blinking, and his eyes seem to fill with a small amount of tears. She winces but forces her voice to be firm. "Look at me," she commands, stepping closer and leaning over him. His eyes focus; now they look green. "And tell me you won't tell John."

He blinks slowly, his eyes unfocusing again. They flutter shut.

Panic strikes through her like a lightning bolt and she quickly returns his morphine to the proper amount. She feels like she's going to be sick. His breathing is erratic; he's panting. His body jerks a little with each breath, his brows furrowed. It only takes a few moments but to Mary it seems like a lifetime for him to relax slowly as the morphine banishes the pain.

She sighs, running a hand over her face and rubbing at her eyes. She retakes her seat, laying her palms against her jeans and shrugging off her coat.

She'll be here a while.

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**Well, thank you for reading and this is definitely the last chapter. Thanks again and please, leave me a comment on your thoughts!**


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